


When the Snake in Eden is the Self

by General_Sawyer



Category: The Office (US)
Genre: Gen, Internalized Homophobia, Self-Denial
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-08
Updated: 2020-12-08
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:26:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27947519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/General_Sawyer/pseuds/General_Sawyer
Summary: Under self-deceptive pretenses, Angela exists at the office.
Comments: 5
Kudos: 21





	When the Snake in Eden is the Self

Angela Martin scrutinizes.

She notices the way Jan crosses her legs in the worn-out chairs of the conference room, the way her skirt hikes up her legs just the tiniest bit each time she leans forward. Shadows cast by the table trace the shapes of her thighs. Angela eyes the caramel hue of Jan’s skin, but winds her pale fingers together tightly and looks away. The thought of being distracted by the wiles of some impure woman makes her stomach churn, and she vomits out the ache in an articulate “Judging from her attire, Jan aspires to be a whore.”

She remembers the blouse Pam wore two days ago, the tight green one that danced across her natural curves and whispered scandalous things into Angela’s head that made her scowl, both at Pam and at herself. There’s no way Pam doesn’t take advantage of the way the fluorescent lights make her orange ( _almost golden_ , she muses one day) curls glint. Living with the sole purpose of appeasing men is something she’ll _never_ understand, she thinks, eyeing a picture with a bible quote and a woman praying next to it. She’s not sure which she looked at first. 

She takes occasional glimpses at Phyllis’s makeup. Purple lipstick on Tuesdays and Wednesdays, red every other day. When she passes the makeup aisle at the store, she can’t help but imagine Phyllis’s airy voice singing along with each sound the sample brush makes as Angela drags it across her skin. Catching a whiff of the lavender fabric softener, she realizes she recognizes the smell. She frowns at the scent— _such a strong thing is surely just to arouse Bob_ — yet the bottle rattles against the brushes knowingly inside her shopping cart.

She knows Kelly Kapoor is a peacock. She’s the kind of girl who drapes sin across her body, lets rumors and swears and lies dribble from her lips like honey, chases any man within a three-foot distance, the kind of girl mom always said would wind up dead in an alleyway. She wrinkles her nose in contempt at Kelly’s bare shoulders on Casual Friday, but still throws glances into the annex when she’s in the break room. _To see if she put a sweater on_.

At night, Angela Martin dreams. In the clouds behind her eyes, figures flow and dance. Skin where she wouldn’t reveal it, looking where she shouldn’t see. She wakes up with ribbons of heat ebbing under her skin and pressure in her stomach, bunching the sheets in her hands. She reaches for her nightstand and clutches her Bible to her chest. Her prayers are pleas in disguise.

Angela Martin subdues.


End file.
